I like it when I see the chance of rain
Is only ten percent, it makes me wonder
Which one of ten of us is preordained
To end up soaked and deafened by the thunder.
I keep a weather eye upon the clouds
To see if any might have me in mind
Enough to seek me out amidst the crowds
And spill abundance on me, as assigned.
Who knows what moves the weather to and fro,
Why nations flood while others suffer drought,
Or why one winter buries all in snow
Except in places where new seedlings sprout.
When heaven opens, I throw wide my arms
To welcome fortune’s sweet, if fickle charms.